


Wash It All Away

by enigma731, samalander



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Chair Sex, F/M, Facial Shaving, First Time, Injury, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2190237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731, https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha shakes her head, trying not to give in to the emotions that surge in her chest, the kind of pride and affection she feels for this disaster of a man. He's a joke, she thinks, a parody of a functional adult, sitting in his tighty-whities in his own kitchen, needing his face shaved by the assassin he's foolish enough to trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash It All Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [only_because3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_because3/gifts).



> For a [picture prompt](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com/412023.html?thread=7767671#t7767671) at the be_compromised promptathon.
> 
> Title from Matt Hires' "[All That's Left Is You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDEN1Ph5xKI)":  
>  _Walk until I'm falling off my feet_  
>  _Wishing I could just fall asleep_  
>  _Holding onto so many things that I can't keep_  
>  _Somebody tell me the truth_  
>  _I'm gonna wash it all away, till' all that's left is you_

Natasha pays the cabbie as Clint climbs out onto the curb, holding his injured left hand tight to his chest. She rolls her eyes slightly-- for all the bluster he put up about being able to do this on his own, about not needing her _help_ , he's acting like he's permanently damaged, like he's broken. 

She gets a grip on his elbow and steers him gently toward the door of his building. "Come on, Glassjaw," she smiles. "Lets get you inside."

_His scream still echoes in her mind-- the agony in his voice raw and loud as the drug kingpin drove the discarded arrow into Clint's palm and the blood blossomed from the wound. For a moment she'd feared the worst, feared they were finished, going to die in a remote Argentinian jungle with nothing but the trees to bear witness. Clint had rallied, though, despite the injury, managed to use the element of surprise to turn the odds in his favor, and rode the wave of adrenaline long enough to hike to the extraction point._

Clint nods, though he still looks a little at sea, keeping his hand against his body as he climbs the stairs. Natasha places a protective palm against his back, though there's really no reason for him to be unsteady. He's spent the past twenty-four hours under observation in Medical, been pumped full of IV fluids and anti-inflammatories, and finally issued a prescription for six weeks of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best physical therapy, just as soon as the cast comes off.

He uses his right hand to pull his keys from his pocket when they get to the door, but he doesn't even get them near the lock before he manages to drop them, a loud clatter against the linoleum. Natasha cringes inwardly. He insists his neighbors are friendly--or harmless, at least--but her instincts tell her that the last thing they need is for nosey onlookers to find out that he's injured and start asking questions. 

"Keys," says Natasha, as he manages to scoop them clumsily off the floor.

"I've got it," he protests, but she doesn't give him the opportunity to try and prove it again, swiping the ring away from him.

"Go take a shower," she orders, as soon as she's gotten the door open and followed him inside. "You smell like Medical."

Clint just nods, his eyes downcast. That scares Natasha more than anything else that's happened so far. If he's not arguing back, she isn't sure what he's doing at all.

She shakes her head, ushering him up the stairs so she can make some food, hopefully get him to eat something more substantial than jello. All he has is a sad looking frozen pizza, but she supposes that it technically counts as calories, so she turns on the oven and sits at the table, watching the timer as it ticks away.

The oven beeps but she doesn't move, doesn't make the effort to put the food in. She doesn't want to admit how tired she is, how much time she's spent sitting next to him just _worrying_. She's never had to worry about another person before Clint, never had a partner she needed to care for. It's exhausting, all the thinking and considering options. She's not sure she can do it. Maybe she isn't built for this kind of compassion.

It's sweltering in the kitchen, the oven leaking heat into the already summer-steamy apartment. She stands, intending to turn on the AC or open a window or something, when she hears Clint's muffled curse from upstairs.

Natasha doesn't think, she just acts. She has her gun drawn and she's up the stairs before she really knows why, her heart pounding in her throat. The bathroom door is ajar, and she nudges it gently, revealing Clint.

He's not in any real distress. She can see that immediately. He's bleeding though, his cheeks and neck covered in a thick white foam that's flecked with blood.

"What are you doing?" she demands, her voice angrier than she intended, and Clint straight-up jumps, the razor tumbling into the sink. His clothes are in a heap on the floor, she realizes as she steps closer; he's already stripped down to his underwear, the shower running in the background.

"Taking a shower," he grits, turning to face her, clearly angry now. "Or trying to, anyway. Generally prefer to do that in private."

"Showering doesn't involve putting a blade to your throat," says Natasha, pushing the door the rest of the way open with her hip and moving to stand beside him, plucking the razor from the sink before he can pick it up again. 

"At least it's my own blade," he says bitterly. "And my own throat."

That makes Natasha's stomach drop again, her concern for him almost overwhelming. She forces the fear away, though, lets her irritation take control because that's something she _knows_ , something she can use. 

"Great," she says tartly. "And _why_ do you needed to shave right now? You got a hot date I don't know about?"

"It's not about who I'm gonna see," he snaps. "It's about-- about feeling. About feeling normal."

Natasha sighs heavily, because that is something she understands, though it doesn't make his attempt at doing this with his good hand out of commission any less idiotic. She's here to help him, she reminds herself, and sometimes that means doing things against her better judgment, means letting him tell her what he needs.

"Okay," she agrees reluctantly. "But I'm doing it for you."

Clint looks like he's going to fight her, like he might protest. But after a moment he shrugs and gestures for her to get started.

"No," Natasha says, shaking her head. "There's-- there's no room in here. If we're going to do this, we're going to do this my way."

She doesn't wait for him to reply, just grabs the can of shaving cream and turns on her heel, marching down the stairs. He hesitates, but he turns off the water and follows her. She pulls out a chair when they get to the kitchen. 

"Sit," she tells him, moving to turn off the oven. "Your pizza will have to wait."

Clint blinks at her in confusion, glancing around the room like it might have magically transformed into someone else's apartment. "Pizza?"

"You know," says Natasha. "Food. The thing that you wouldn't eat in the hospital?"

He wrinkles his nose, apparently remembering his disdain for his meal trays just fine. "Cafeteria's gross."

"So you've mentioned." She rolls her eyes. "Five times. So, you're going to eat something real just as soon as I make sure you don't open up your jugular with this." Natasha brandishes the razor demonstratively, deciding it's a good thing that at least he's talking, at least he's doing _something_ other than retreating into himself. 

"Okay," he nods, sinking into the chair she pointed at. "Thanks." He's still scaring her, she decides--her Clint, the Clint she knows and has a mild fondness for--should be fighting her or making jokes or doing something besides looking shell-shocked by the idea of sustenance

But there aren't a lot of options here, not while he's being withdrawn and scared. So she opts to place the razor on the counter, out of his reach, and gives him the shaving cream. 

"I take it I can trust you with this part," she says, watching him warily. "It's harder to kill yourself with foam."

"Who are you talking to?" he asks softly. Any other day it might have been a joke, but today it just hurts her, makes her heart ache at how pathetic he looks. 

"Sit still," says Natasha, stepping into his personal space and placing her hand on his face. There isn't much blood, she can see now that she's closer, but the shaving cream he applied before is beginning to melt in the heat, running down his jaw in sticky little rivulets. 

She studies him for a moment before grabbing a clean--she hopes, anyway--dish towel from a drawer Clint seems to have forgotten exists. He shudders as she begins wiping the mess away, brushing the pad of her thumb along the edge of a tiny cut. She isn't quite sure how to read that, so she just keeps going, keeps focused on her task. When his skin is clean, she takes the can back and squirts a little of the menthol-scented glop into her palm, slowly spreading on a new layer. 

Clint's eyes are wide when they meet hers, and Natasha has to stop herself from saying something stupid, from asking him if he wants this. Because it isn't a choice he gets, not when the other option is to hurt himself. She lathers his face liberally but quickly, taking care not to get any foam in the cut he's already made, not to inflict any pain on him.

"You don't have to do this," he says softly, when she steps back.

"Who are _you_ talking to?" she shoots, tossing his words right back at him.

"I--" He shakes his head. "Thanks, I guess."

She doesn't say anything in reply, just picks up the razor and studies his face for a moment. She decides to start with the easiest part and presses the blade to his cheek, her nerves steady and her eyes locked on his. The angle is a little awkward; his kitchen chairs are not particularly tall and she finds herself bending over, bracing herself against his shoulder as she continues working, slowly and carefully. 

The muscles in Clint's jaw are still tense when she finishes with his right cheek and she pauses, the cut he's made catching her eye again. Suddenly she thinks about what she's doing, the strange intimacy of this moment. It isn't like she's never patched him up before, and yet there's something profoundly personal about this act of shaving, a little shred of his dignity that he's temporarily entrusted to her. Not to mention the fact that he's quietly allowing her to hold a blade to his throat, fully aware that opening the jugular was once her favorite way to kill. 

"Are you afraid I'll hurt you?" she asks bluntly, stepping back a little and straightening so that she can meet his eyes.

"What?" He looks startled and a little disoriented, almost as if she's woken him from sleep.

"You're tense," she points out. 

Clint shakes his head, swallowing visibly. "No, I--It feels good."

"But something's wrong," she prompts. Clint just stares at her for a second before holding up his injured hand.

"Dude stabbed me," he says, dumbly. Natasha can't help herself, she smiles. It's infectious, and for a moment they sit there, grinning at each other like loons. 

"Dude stabbed you," she echoes.

"He did!"

"Stay still," she says again, though this time she's not angry, her voice is softer and she tilts his head back to get better access to his throat.

"Dude stabbed me with an _arrow_ ," he continues, ignoring her. He sounds scandalized now, practically whining. "I mean, if you're gonna stab someone, at least bring your own weapon."

"Oh," she says dryly, letting the razor drop away from his face for the moment, since he clearly has no intention of actually staying still for her. "So you'd be okay with a more creative injury, then?"

"No," he pouts, "but he should still be ashamed of himself."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Are you going to let me finish this? Because I'm getting kind of fond of you looking like Santa Claus. I might be considering taking pictures." 

"And what would you do with pictures?" he asks, but he tilts his head back obediently for her.

"Sell them," she says, matter-of-factly, swiping the blade over his throat. "On Ebay. See if anyone fears you, then. See if anyone is afraid of Clint Barton, Santa Claus."

He smiles, but waits for her to take the razor away before he looks at her. "Thanks," he says his voice full of his aching sincerity. "For--for this."

Natasha shakes her head, trying not to give in to the emotions that surge in her chest, the kind of pride and affection she feels for this disaster of a man. He's a joke, she thinks, a parody of a functional adult, sitting in his tighty-whities in his own kitchen, needing his face shaved by the assassin he's foolish enough to trust.

"You're welcome," she says, and she makes a soft noise of shock as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her in so he can rest one of his foamy cheeks against her stomach. Natasha touches his hair gently, and he draws her a little closer, his shoulders beginning to relax for the first time in days. 

"What would I do without you?" he breathes, almost as if he doesn't realize he's speaking the words aloud.

"Turn your face into ground meat, for one thing," says Natasha, the humor like a shield, an instinctive defense that springs to her lips before she's even fully registered what she's doing. His words are tugging at her heart again, the urge to tear apart all his demons unbearably strong, though she knows that's impossible, not something she can ever do for him. 

Clint makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, straightening without letting her go, sliding his hands down to her hips and pulling her into his lap so that their eyes are level. He doesn't say anything, and the intensity of his gaze makes her throat tighten again.

"Well," she says, as lightly as she can, shifting to straddle his lap, "this is a compromising position."

He grins, gently squeezing her waist. "Because you putting a blade to my throat wasn't?"

"That--" She shakes her head. "That was different."

"Cause you were in control?"

Natasha doesn't know what to say to that, in part because she knows he's right. She settles onto his lap, his grip still hot on her skin. She swallows and presses the razor to his skin again, watching as the blades make quick work of the stubble. She can feel him growing hard against her thigh, which she thinks she's probably enjoying a little too much.

"You okay?" she asks, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.

He's getting agitated the longer it goes on, his face flushing and his heartbeat pounding under the fingers she has on his neck.

"Yeah," he breathes, squirming a little. 

"You sure?"

He shakes his head. "It's hot in here," he lies, as if he wasn't mostly naked.

"What else is hot?" she asks, all too aware of where this is going, where they're heading, but feeling completely unable to stop their descent--and she finds, to her surprise, that she doesn't really want to.

"The oven," he answers lamely, shifting his hips, probably trying to be subtle, though there's no way she could have missed the movement, given her current position. "The sun."

She can see the tension in his jaw growing again as he struggles to control himself, apparently still apprehensive about something. Natasha finishes with the razor, reaching out to set it on the counter beside them before touching his cheek, stroking her thumb over the smooth surface of his skin. 

"Now what?" she prompts softly, hoping he'll hear the offer in her voice, actually hoping he'll take the cue and ask for what he seems to want.

"Dinner?" he says instead, his voice high and tight, his erection pressing into her thigh at an angle she thinks has to be uncomfortable. 

"Really?" she asks, studying his face. "Because it seems to me there's something else you need first."

"I--" He keeps his gaze steady on her face. "What are you suggesting?"

"Oh, come on, Clint," Natasha grins. "Are you really asking me that?"

He shakes his head, his hips shifting again. "I-- I don't know. I don't know what to do here."

"You want me, right?" she asks, tracing a finger through his chest hair. "Cause I'm pretty sure you want me."

He blushes harder, his face flushing crimson. "I-- I have a girl in my lap," he says.

"No," she shakes her head. "You have _me_ in your lap. Where you put me. So what do you want to do with that?"

"We're partners," says Clint. "We're-- we're _partners_."

"Yeah." She shrugs. "And you're hard, and I want it. So what's the problem?" 

"I--" He breaks off again, swallowing so hard it look almost painful. His breath is coming in shallow gasps, and for a moment she feels another tug of concern for him. "I do want it. But--I _need_ you, Natasha. More than I want sex."

She pauses for a moment, trying to parse that, the old ghosts of her former life still trying to tell her he can't possibly mean what she knows is true. Natasha shakes her head. "And what makes you think that you can't have both?"

"Cause-- cause I've never known anyone who can pull off both," he says softly.

"And have you ever known anyone like me?"

Clint looks at her, his eyes wide and dark. "Never," he breathes, the words like a prayer.

"So trust me," she says, touching his neck gently. "I say we can have both."

"Yes," he sighs. "Yes."

Natasha doesn't wait for more, doesn't need to hear anything else. She laces her fingers together behind his head and pulls him towards her. She leans in and kisses him fiercely, rolling her hips gently against him. Clint groans against her lips, a noise of raw need that resonates through her, makes her more certain than ever that she wants this. He's already gasping for breath when she breaks the kiss, but he doesn't miss a beat, reaching up to fumble with her shirt. 

Natasha shudders as his fingers brush her skin, but he shakes his head, looking uncomfortable again. "Gonna have to help me here."

It takes her a second to realize that he means undressing her, but she nods as soon as she catches on, having actually managed to forget for a moment that he's injured. 

"Hey," she says warmly, pulling her shirt over her head and doing a little back bend for his viewing pleasure. "No problem. You have to tell me what you need, okay?"

"What I need," he echoes, sadly. "I-- I need to be able to touch you."

She catches his good hand and presses it to her bare skin. "You can touch me," she says. "You can touch me as much as you want."

His fingers skim over her stomach gently, like she's something fragile, and she laughs, enjoying the caress. She leans in and kisses his neck, her breasts pressing against his chest. 

"How long have you wanted this?" he asks, his voice still airy and light.

Natasha takes a long moment to respond, leaning in and kissing a line across his neck, the thin sheen of his sweat salty on her lips. He's still watching her intently when she pulls back again, looking at her as though he thinks she might disappear, as if this all might still turn out to be some cruel joke. 

"It's complicated," she says finally, because she realizes she isn't entirely certain of the answer, hasn't allowed herself to fully consider any of this before. It isn't new, though, isn't really a surprise when she digs deep, realizing just how much she feels for him. "It's--hard for me to remember when I didn't."

"Damn," he sighs, his eyes somehow growing wider. "You-- damn."

He kisses her, his fingers flexing against her skin. Natasha sighs, somehow intoxicated by the idea that he's touching her so gently, so reverently. 

"Me," she prompts. 

Clint laughs. "I just-- fuck, Natasha, I want you so bad."

The words cut through her, a surge of lust and desire stronger than she's felt in a long, long time. "I'm good with that," she says, shifting her hand down between them to run a fingertip over the bulge in his underwear. "I want you, too."

He moans, a helpless kind of noise, and thrusts up into her palm. 

"That good for you?" she asks. "Want me to touch you?"

"Yes," Clint pants. "Please, Natasha."

She obliges eagerly, slipping her hand inside the elastic of his underwear to stroke him slowly. He throws his head back with another desperate sound, baring his throat to her. Natasha keeps her hand on his cock as she leans forward to mark a path along his neck, punctuating the noises he's making with little kisses and bites until he's writhing beneath her and she decides to to let him up for air. 

"God," he manages, straightening to meet her eyes again. "God, you're--you're--" He breaks off, laughing. "You take my breath away. And my brain. You take that away too."

"Really," she teases, tracing a fingertip along his jaw. "Then maybe you should tell me how long _you've_ wanted this."

Clint swallows, his heartbeat racing as she traces her fingers over his pulsepoint. "I-- I don't know," he says. "I never thought-- I never let myself think about it. About this. About-- about you."

"No?" she asks, bending down to kiss his shoulder. "Why's that?"

"Cause it's too good," he gasps, thrusting into her hand again. "It's-- everyone sees you, they think sex. So I tried. I tried to be different. I never let myself, you know, think sex. I thought, _Natasha_."

She hums happily, nipping at his collar bone. "Is that so? And what are you thinking now?"

"Not," he shakes his head desperately. "Not thinking. Just-- just feeling. Feeling good."

Natasha laughs softly at that and presses her lips to his neck again, feeling him writhe under her as she traces the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue. He still seems a little adrift, a little insecure, so she decides to remedy that, unclasping her bra and shrugging out of it before pulling his good hand up to her breast. 

"Fuck," he breathes, freezing for a moment, his fingers hot against her skin. He meets her eyes a little hesitantly, a tacit request for permission, and she nods.

"See something you like?" she asks, because talking seems to keep him focused, seems to put him at ease.

"You," he breathes, dropping his head to kiss the top of her breast. "God, you're gorgeous."

"Talk to me," she says, rolling her hips. "Tell me what you want."

"I want-- I want-- I want you to feel good," he says, kissing her neck. "I want to be--use me."

"You like when I'm in charge?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Clint nods almost desperately. "Yeah," he pants. "I-- Why do you think I got so hard when you held a blade to my neck?"

Natasha laughs and slides off his lap, sinking to her knees between his legs. "You know what I like?" she asks, tracing a finger up his thigh. "I like sucking cock." She doesn't say the rest, doesn't say how badly she wants to suck his cock, specifically, wants to feel him come apart and beg her for release.

He tenses again at that, looking up at her with a questioning look she can't quite read. "You--You want to do that? For me? Because you--You don't have to. You don't owe me anything."

"Clint." She sighs, watching him shift uncomfortably again. "I want this. I _want_ you. And I need to know what you want right now."

He swallows visibly again, his hips jumping almost involuntarily as he fights to stay still. "I--your mouth--Fuck, Natasha."

She raises an eyebrow. "That a yes, then?"

"Yeah," he nods, his eyes searching her face for something. "It's a please."

Natasha laughs, slipping her fingers under the waistband of his underwear. "I like it when you ask nicely," she grins, kissing his thigh again.

He groans, his knees shaking slightly as he lifts his hips, letting her pull his underwear off. His cock springs up to stand against his belly, a drop of precome beading at the tip.

"Damn," she groans, catching his good hand again and placing it against her head so he can slip his fingers into her hair. "You got a pretty cock, Clint."

"I do?" he asks, his voice wavering.

"Yeah," she says, bending to kiss the bottom of the shaft. "No one ever told you that before?"

She doesn't give him a chance to answer, opting instead to trace her tongue up the length of it, relishing his open-mouthed groan. She wants more from him, though, so she slips the head of his dick into her mouth, humming softly in happiness as she does. 

" _Yes,_ " he hisses, finally seeming to find his voice, to relax into this as he cards his fingers into her hair, his hips canting upward to meet her mouth. He doesn't try to control her, doesn't pull her hair or tug her head closer, just holds on like he's desperate for the contact, like he needs her to keep him in the moment, keep him steady. 

"Yes," he repeats, as she begins to bob her head in a slow steady rhythm, the words slipping from his mouth like a mantra, like a prayer. "God, yes, Natasha. _Fuck._ "

The words spur her on, and the salty tang of his skin is intoxicating. It's not long before she loses herself in the motion, the rhythm of pleasing him, of undoing all his seams and untying all his knots. Every splintered moment of passion is a little victory for her until time has gone sideways, and she has no idea how long she's been between his knees, taking him down to component parts when his hips stutter and he pants her name, like he's begging for absolution. His fingers tighten in her hair; she considers, for a moment, letting him finish. But instead she wraps a hand around his cock and pulls off with a lewd wet sound.

"You're not done," she says, when he whines in his throat. "Not until I get to feel you inside of me."

She stands and shucks her pants quickly, the fabric of her jeans clinging a little in the humid air of the kitchen. Clint makes another sub-human noise as she moves to straddle his lap again, quickly bringing his good hand up to rest against her hip before bringing it down to her thigh.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at that. "Really?"

"What?" asks Clint, still breathless. The look he gives her makes her think she ought to be slightly worried about circulation to his brain.

"You still have one good hand," says Natasha. "You sure there's not somewhere else you want to be touching me? Or several somewhere elses? Come on, Clint. Since when are you shy?"

He shakes his head, giving her that strangely vulnerable look she can't quite read again. "I'm just--Things I want don't go well. I don't want to fuck this up."

"I want you to fuck me," she says, leaning in to kiss his neck. "And the things I want tend to go really, _really_ well."

She can see the wheels in his head turning as he thinks about that. It's only a moment before he sets his jaw and runs his palm across her nipple. 

"Like this?" he asks.

"Good start," she tells him, taking hold of his cock again. "What else do you wanna touch?"

"Your hair," Clint answers, his voice going high and strained as she strokes him idly. He catches a long curl and twines it around his fingers for a moment before letting go. "Your face." He rests the backs of his knuckles against her cheek, so lightly it almost makes her want to scream.

Natasha starts to say something, starts to complain again. But then she catches his eye, sees the familiar glint of mischief there, and realizes that now he's being deliberately slow, teasing her to see how far she'll push. 

"That's how you want to play?" she asks, pulling away from him. "I'm starting to think you _want_ me to give you orders."

"And what if I do?" he challenges, meeting her eyes.

Natasha smiles and lets her lips brush his. "Then I'd say you should fuck me, Agent Barton."

He laughs and rests his good hand on her hip, his skin hot against hers. "Yes, ma'am," he laughs, tilting his head back. "I can do that."

"Yeah," she growls, rising up onto her knees to position his cock. "I think you can."

Clint brings his bandaged hand up to rest at the small of her back, the cool brush of plaster against her flushed skin making her shiver. Then he pauses again, leans forward and kisses her roughly, seeming to finally have broken free of his doubts. Natasha shudders as he runs his fingers across her abdomen, finds her clit with his thumb, and she groans into his mouth as he strokes gently.

He deserves a reward, she thinks, for his newfound confidence. She moans again as she sinks down onto his cock. The slide and stretch of their bodies meeting is incredible, it's perfect. It's a headshot, an open jugular, a perfect kill. It's bliss and ecstasy and everything she thought it might be.

"Fuck," she breathes. "Fuck, Clint. You feel so good."

He doesn't respond in words, but his hips jerk and he growls softly, bending to nip at her neck. Clint uses his injured hand to pull her close as she starts to move, rolling his hips up to meet her. There isn't much space to work with, but Natasha holds onto the back of the chair, throws herself into the pleasure of this, the delicious hot slide of their bodies together. She trusts him not to let her fall, she thinks, trusts him with a hell of a lot more than that. She groans as he finds her clit again, stroking roughly as he quickens the movements of his hips, his ragged breathing letting her know that he's getting close, already pushed to the edge by her earlier teasing. 

"Don't you do it," she hisses, digging her nails into his shoulder. "Don't you dare come before I do."

He whimpers, his hips slamming up as his fingers work faster against her sensitive flesh. She sobs raggedly at the sensation, tossing her head back and moaning openly.

"Natasha," he grits through clenched teeth. "Natasha, damn. Dammit. Fuck."

She lifts her head to meet his eye, which are still wide with arousal, set into his flushed face. "Shit," she sighs. "You're gorgeous."

His fingers keep moving even as his thrusts become more erratic, his rhythm flagging and failing. She gives in then, lets her muscles go slack as the first edges of her climax rock through her, a pleased groan sneaking out of her throat. 

Clint's fingers press little bruises into her shoulder as he thrusts once, twice more, burying his face in her shoulder as he comes with a soft cry. He wraps both arms around her, pulling her with him as he sags back in the chair, panting roughly against her neck. He's shaking, she realizes, from more than just exhaustion, the painful vulnerability that's been haunting him all day creeping back in.

"You okay?" she asks, carefully slipping her own arm around his shoulders, her fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

He looks up at her with his sad, wide eyes, and Natasha's heart feels half-broken, like she's been tossed and battered by the waves of Clint's sea. "Yeah," he says. "I-- I mean, I'm not _okay_ , but I'm okay, you know?"

"I have no idea what that means," she says, leaning in to kiss him. 

Clint laughs, which makes Natasha's heart skip a beat. "That's fair," he says, stroking her cheek gently. "What should we do now."

"You--" She considers the question for a moment. "You still taking orders from me?"

"I don't have to," he says, avoiding her gaze. "I just like, you know-- I'm an army guy. I feel comfortable with it."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Is that why you backtalk everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D.?" she asks. "Is that why you're incapable of following commands?"

"I should take that shower," he says, which is a complete cop-out, but she'll allow it right now.

"Okay." She climbs off of his lap and reaches out to help him up. "Let's go clean up."

He doesn't say anything as she stands, just braces himself against her shoulder for a second, as if he's dizzy.

"Clint?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, straightening and letting go. "Sorry. I was just-- It's been a day."

"You in pain?" asks Natasha, realizing it's a distinct possibility, what with all the activity they've just had. She wonders for a moment whether she ought to have made him wait, ought to have insisted on making him rest. The sex was worth it, though, she decides, and she's pretty sure he'd agree with that. 

"No," he says quietly, looking at his cast again for a moment before meeting her eyes. "I'm not sure I can feel my fingers."

"They're bandaged," says Natasha, though she's well aware of what he's saying, her own stomach clenching with apprehension at that confession. "And you've got a lot of healing to do."

"I know," says Clint, swallowing visibly. "And if it doesn't heal? You saw what I'm like with one hand. My bow is the one thing I'm good at. The one thing that makes me worthwhile. If I lose that--"

"Stop," she insists, interrupting him firmly. "You're going to heal. You are going to heal, and when you do, we're going to find a lot of fun things to do with your newfound dexterity."

"So this--" He blinks. "This is a thing?"

"Yeah," she nods. "This is a thing. If you want it to be a thing."

Clint touches his cast with his fingertips, as if feeling the injury can help him deal with it. "And if I don't heal? If I don't get it back?"

Natasha shrugs, trying to pretend like it wouldn't matter. "Then you can be a deep-sea fisherman, and you can have any damn facial hair you want."

He actually smiles at that and reaches out to lace their fingers together. "You won't shave my face if I'm a deep sea fisherman?"

"Hell no." She smiles back at him. "What would the other guys on _Deadliest Catch_ think? You have to have a beard."

"Are those the rules?"

"Yes. Those are the rules."

Clint takes a tentative step forward, towards the stairs. "And are there other rules? Like maybe about taking showers together?"

Natasha rolls her eyes, but she stops and steps in front of him so they're facing each other. 

"You are definitely not allowed to shower unsupervised," she tells him, leaning up to kiss his lips again quickly. "Maybe not ever again. It's a very high-risk activity, you know."

"I've heard that," he says, smiling.

"But-- but now we'll take a shower, and then eat a pizza, okay?" She grabs an empty plastic bag, that must have once held an obscene amount of take-out, and turns to lead him up the stairs. She turns on the shower and adjust the spray so it's a comfortable temperature.

"Ready?" she asks, holding out the bag for him to put over his cast.

Clint doesn't say anything, just wraps his arm and leans in to kiss her before stepping under the spray.


End file.
